At All Costs
by INMH
Summary: Takes place after Caged Heat but before Frontierland. For an angel, souls are as good as steroids, and there are always issues when you. Slight Castiel/Rachel.


At All Costs

Rating: PG-13/T  
>Genre: HurtComfort/Romance  
>Summary: Takes place after Caged Heat but before Frontierland. For an angel, souls are as good as steroids, and there are always issues when you. Slight CastielRachel.  
>Author's Note: I came up with this after I saw a video on YouTube by ccmrose, "I Feel Like Dying". It's Castiel-centric, and focuses on the soul-popping thing that's left him all whacky in the head.<p>

Only I made this Castiel/Rachel, because it's my OTP and I'm obsessed with it and it felt like it could WORK.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. It belongs to Eric Kripke.

()()

Using souls for power was not good.

It was the angelic- or even demonic- version of steroids. Sure, they gave you a rush of power, made you stronger, strong enough to do what you had to do and protect what you so desperately wanted to protect. But at the end of the day, a drug is a drug and drugs are addictive. The residual effect of a soul on an angel or a demon was not unlike a human's physical addiction to cocaine or meth or alcohol.

And using souls produced a general set of side-effects as well- not necessarily similar to the ones produced by the steroids used by humans, but ones that were fairly easy to read by the right people: Rapid changes in mood, having an excess of energy and strength one minute and then being close to collapse the next, malfunctioning angelic abilities that, when they were working, fluctuated wildly. And then, when the withdrawal came, an otherwise strong and healthy angel could be brought to their knees, as weak and helpless as a human.

Castiel knew that what he was doing was _bad_. In terms of his standing in heaven at the moment, his followers discovering that he was using souls (in particular the _amount_ he was using) would be not unlike humans discovering a high-ranking government official using crack cocaine- Only worse, because angels were not accustomed to one of their own severely compromising their integrity in such a way. The only time in which using even a few souls, _total_, was acceptable was in serious war conditions.

They were in a serious war, but Castiel wasn't certain that he could convincingly justify the amount he'd taken in thus far.

Because he was fully aware of how bad this was, Castiel was actively trying to avoid using souls when he didn't have to. There were certain dilemmas to it, though: It would just be his luck if he weaned himself off them and returned to a satisfactory state only to need a power-up for a fight. He never knew when it would be necessary, and he was terrified of risking being at low-power when Raphael attacked. And trying to lessen his intake was just as crippling, because the withdrawal stages made him even more useless than he was when he'd nearly been human.

As much as his paranoia had grown, as much as it frightened him, he knew he had to try. He had to be resilient. He had to push through. The problem was that the idea sounded _so good_ on paper, but not so good when you actually had to go through it.

Castiel forced himself to go about his daily routine, not without its hardships. There was a fight; they lost four soldiers, whilst Raphael's men got away with only one casualty. Two other angels went missing, and it had yet to be confirmed if they had been killed or defected. Another angel had been caught as a spy and was killed in the ensuing fight, though their opponent had, thankfully, survived with only minor wounds. And then, of course, when Castiel had _just_ been wondering what else the day could throw at him, Dean prayed to him asking for help; he and Sam wanted to see if they could track down Meg and kill her, and would Cas mind lending a hand?

_Yes, I very-fucking-much mind. Do it yourselves._

He didn't actually send that response to Dean, but Castiel thought it surprising that he'd been so blatant in his thinking.

Castiel was tired. Very tired. _Dead_ tired. Jimmy Novak's limbs felt like stone, which was twice as horrible because Castiel was, even on a bad day, able to lift heavy objects like large stones very easily. His eyes were drooping, and when he spoke to someone or was listening to them, he found he had to ask them to repeat themselves a number of times, because he was unable to focus on their words or keep track of them.

He wanted to sit down. He wanted so, so badly to do what he'd done when he was a miserable almost-human, and that was go down to Bobby Singer's house and curl up on the cot in the basement. In the months leading up to the battle at Stull Cemetery, the hunter had allowed the angel to do so several times, apparently sympathizing with the obviously terrible effects the angel was suffering from. At the time, Castiel had appreciated the sympathy and the help.

Now, though, he didn't want to burden Bobby. Whilst he worked most closely with Dean and Sam, Castiel found them to be demanding. Bobby was far more understanding when it came to simple concepts like 'Castiel has a life that doesn't revolve around me'. Castiel appreciated that more than anything else, and so he refused to put any kind of trouble on Bobby if he could help it, even though Bobby was, to him, possibly the _best_ person to help him work out this mess he'd gotten himself into. He couldn't trouble him. Not now, not after all he'd done.

Castiel was barely able to keep track of the passing time, and the fatigue was starting to be infected with that generalized weakness that sapped everything he had, made his arms and legs tremble and his head feel unpleasantly light. That urge to sit down was so overwhelming, but he couldn't- If he sat down, lied down, he wasn't going to get up again, he was going to sleep the sleep of the dead and Raphael would probably wipe everyone out in the meantime.

Was it silly to assume that everything would come crashing down if he took a break? Maybe. But Castiel had heaped a great deal of responsibility onto his shoulders, responsibilities that he didn't take lightly. As illogical as it sounded, taking a break was equivalent to slacking off, at least for him: Castiel encouraged his followers to get as much rest as they could whenever they could. They would need it.

But he was supposed to be above it.

The rustle of wings alerted him to someone arriving, and Castiel almost moaned in agony at the idea of having to exert any more energy than he already was. He wasn't certain he'd be able to manage it.

"Castiel."

Oh, and _goodie_: It was Rachel.

Don't misunderstand: Rachel was his friend, his confidant, his most trusted, his lieutenant, but because of all those things Rachel was also the most likely to realize that he was asleep on his feet and in desperate need of a rest, which she had- in the past- sometimes forced him to engage in. To date, her most extreme measure had been to trap Castiel in a ring of holy fire for three days, allowing him out only once he'd slept for most of them.

He did not want a repeat of the holy fire incident.

Balthazar was still, as Dean might say, "Busting his balls" for it.

The moment he turned around and faced his lieutenant, though, Castiel was reasonably certain that it was going to happen.

"Castiel," Rachel's eyes widened. "You look awful."

"Thank you, Rachel."

"I'm not joking."

"Neither am I."

"You look exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

If Rachel knew what he was up to, she hid it well. Castiel assumed that she at least had an educated guess, because Rachel spent the most time around him, saw the symptoms, and she was very intelligent; if anyone could figure it out, she could. There was also a very real possibility that she did suspect and simply didn't want to know.

Angels rarely, if ever, became ill. And if they did, it was a serious issue usually indicating a lack of grace. There weren't many things that could make an angel weak and sickly- Other than, of course, soul withdrawal, or simply extreme exhaustion that angels were rarely pushed too. And even then, Castiel had lost his standing as a 'typical' angel a while ago.

"Please don't start."

"If you need to rest then you should-"

"I do _not_ need to rest, Rachel, I'm _fine_." It was only with the greatest effort that Castiel kept his tone civil. She was only trying to help, and she was _right_, and those facts kept the fire of his anger from burning too hard. "What was it that you needed, Rachel?"

"Nothing."

"You came for something."

"Nothing, Castiel, it's not important."

Castiel could feel his temper starting to shorten; she was clearly holding back so as not to stress him.

"Fine. I'll go then."

Then something alarming happened.

Flying came as naturally to angels as breathing came to humans: You didn't need to really think about it, it just kind of happened when you wanted it to. There wasn't much that could hinder an angel's physical/anatomical capability of flight, save for damage to the wings themselves (which was an extremely difficult task). But evidently, it was another side-effect of his soul-ravaged vessel.

Castiel managed to propel himself five feet off the ground. It was at the peak of that, though, that his wings turned to mush, flapping wildly to regain his balance like an awkward duck that didn't take off the right way. They twisted, pounded the air for half a second that felt much longer, and then he started to fall.

Sheer, unadulterated _terror_ lanced through Castiel. The act of falling from grace was one thing, but actually _physically_ falling was a concept so foreign to angels that ninety-nine point nine percent of them would easily claim that they had never experienced the sensation before. The sudden inability to do something that had never been difficult for you was, again, a lot like the human process of respiration: Suddenly losing their ability to breathe, though angels did not truly need to fly to survive, was the most terrifying instance in the world.

The impact jarred Castiel, and he felt Jimmy Novak's bones screamed from the trauma, though none of them broke. Castiel ended up face down in the grass, grimacing, trying to squash down the terror that had risen so quickly and, more importantly, his horrified embarrassment at having floundered so badly in front of Rachel. If she'd needed any justification before, she had it now.

He tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out and he went back down. He shut his eyes, sighing, and a moment later he felt Rachel's hand on his back.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," He mumbled, and his voice was barely audible to her. Castiel's eyes were shut, and sleep was so tempting, so, so, temping, and he was already off his feet, and the darkness was calling-

()()

When Castiel opened his eyes again, it was dark.

He had to think a bit, and that was an embarrassingly challenging task, almost as much so as his botched attempt at flight (which, naturally, was the first thing he remembered); this place looked familiar, he'd been there before, it was probably somewhere in heaven… The sky was black, littered with hundreds of glittering stars. Said sky was partly occluded by tall trees in full bloom, the kind you see in midsummer. He couldn't tell what type and frankly didn't care.

His head was resting against something soft. It was moving slowly, up and down. It was warm. Nice. It took considerably less effort to realize that his head was on someone's chest, and even less time to guess whose.

Rachel was his lieutenant for a reason; several, actually. She was loyal. She was trustworthy. She was intelligent. She was strong. She was also Castiel's friend, and had been for a long, long time. He cringed at the memory of his little fall; if their positions had been switched, Castiel would have been concerned over Rachel's physical condition, scared of what could possibly be wrong (because no _mild_ conditions cause this kind of weakness). He would be freaking out, and so she probably is.

Castiel made no move to indicate that he was awake; mainly because he wasn't, not really, yet. His human brain had yet to reconnect with his borrowed limbs, and besides: This was very comfortable. He wondered how long they'd been there, how long he had been out. Unlike humans, who eventually needed to get up and move, angels were capable of staying still for long stints of time (some more easily than others). It came with the territory of being thousands upon thousands of years old.

He could feel the weakness in his bones, the ache of overworking not only his human vessel but also his true self; like they were angry at him for not letting them rest, for abusing them with souls. Like with the idea of going cold turkey or cutting back on the souls, the idea of taking a rest every now and then sounded good on paper, but was much more difficult in its applications. Castiel pressed a little closer to Rachel. With his power drained, he was more subject to temperatures, and this particular heaven was a little cooler than most.

They were most likely in Rachel's preferred heaven, a dark but moonlit night in a forest. He'd thought it was beautiful when he'd first learned of it some several years ago and continued to think so; he had been trying to figure out some of the particulars of Rachel's personality based on her choice.

It might sound odd for someone who claimed to be friends with someone else for several hundreds of thousands of years and yet not know the particulars of their personality, but recall that prior to his rebellion angels had never really had the freedom to find varying ways to express their personalities. At the time, Castiel had tried to learn about her what she did not have the freedom to tell him herself.

Now he thought he understood her a bit better.

"Castiel?" He felt Rachel's hand brush his hair, her other pressing against his side. "Are you awake?"

"Mmf," Castiel mumble-huffed.

"Are you all right?"

"Mm-hm."

"Castiel, now of all times is a poor time to lie to me."

"I'm fine," Castiel rumbled, though he never opened his eyes. "Just tired."

"You are _not_."

"Rachel, please."  
>"<em>No<em>, Castiel. This is not "all right". There is something _wrong_ with you. What is it?" Castiel sighed. Other than "I'm all right/fine/okay/nothing's wrong", he really didn't know how to answer that question.

"…I am… Tired, Rachel. Really. I'm just tired. It's been a long- year. A long few years, actually." By angelic reckoning three years was in general barely the blink of an eye, but when those years had been consumed by almost-apocalypse, actual apocalypse and then all out war it tended to feel much longer. "I haven't been resting enough."

"That's what I keep telling you," Rachel's voice was edgy. "The fact that you're agreeing with me now is suspicious."

_Give it up, man_, Dean's voice grumbled in his head. _Women are not easily satisfied by bullshit explanations._

"I can't lie to you now." He felt like kicking himself, and was grateful that she couldn't quite see his face from this angle; Balthazar said that he was a terrible liar. "It would be pointless. The obviousness of my fatigue is unexplainable any other way."

_Except from soul-consumption. Dude, don't lie to her: She's gonna be pissed when she finds out later_.

That one sounded like Sam- Sam when he still had his soul, anyway.

Though Rachel seemed slightly wary at taking that at face-value, it was apparent that she didn't have an adequate alternate explanation or counter-argument, because she didn't press any further. Castiel sighed, and his body was heavy, still very heavy. Moving efficiently would not be realistic for a while. Rachel didn't seem to be contemplating movement either, and though she adjusted herself slightly she made no move to remove Castiel from his position atop her.

"Thank you, Rachel." Those three words were probably the ones he'd spoken the most often over the last year and a half, and never once had he said them without meaning them. Rachel did a lot for him: She kept him on track, watched out for him, made sure he was kept up to date on everything that happened when he was away from heaven.

And even though it wasn't convenient, even though he didn't want her doing it, Castiel knew he was fortunate to have a lieutenant, a friend that cared enough for him that she would push and push and push to find out what was really going on with him, all so that she could help him. She always tried to lighten his load when it was too much. She'd even, on a few occasions, offered to be the one that went down to aid the Winchesters while he was busy.

He had adamantly declined. Castiel could not think of a worse situation than Rachel and Dean in the same room. He could already tell, given their personalities, that they were going to clash, and if that was going to happen he needed to be there when it did to stop them from murdering one another. What was more, Dean's previous interactions with other angels had not exactly painted the best picture of Castiel's race: Dean would not trust Rachel even if Castiel told him he could.

Even if she was the most trustworthy of them all.

"Think nothing of it, Castiel."

()()

"What is Castiel doing?"

Balthazar turned to look at his little sister with an expression of the uttermost innocence and curiosity, which was the red flag that warned Rachel that he was about to lie through his teeth to her.

"I don't know what you mean, Rachel."

"I think you know exactly what I mean." Rachel felt the threatening tone bleed into her voice against her will. She hadn't wanted to sound aggressive just yet, not if she could wring an answer from him without it. Balthazar backed away, hands up in a placating motion, a constant hint of humor present in his eyes.

"Now, now, Rachel, no need to go Gitmo on me." He rolled his eyes when Rachel blinked in confusion.

"I… Don't know what that means."

"It's a- Never mind. What did you want again?" Rachel's expression hardened immediately once more.

"What is Castiel doing?" The insistence in her tone alerted Balthazar to the fact that there was no way he was going to get out of this without some kind of at least remotely satisfying answer. She would hunt him down if he ran, and honestly, Balthazar did not want to try testing her; she'd gained a reputation for being quite protective of Castiel, and if there was something wrong with him, she was going to get to the bottom of it.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean he was so drained of energy that he couldn't even _fly_." Balthazar's eyes widened slightly.

"That bad?"

"That bad."

He kept his expression as neutral as he could, though he played with his hands thoughtfully; funny the human traits they picked up when they were in vessels. Balthazar was hesitant to relay information to Rachel- In place of his faith in God, he had adopted a strong faith in Castiel and the idea that his little brother had a plan that he was working with. He didn't want to be the one responsible for throwing a wrench into it because he told Rachel the wrong thing. Best to be cautious.

"What do _you_ think he's been up to?"

"I'm asking _you_, Balthazar."

"You must have a theory."

"You're trying to duck me. You know exactly what's going on and you're trying to avoid telling me." Balthazar sighed. This was one of the many reasons why Rachel was Castiel's lieutenant: She was sharp. Besides, she knew Balthazar well enough to know when he was dodging a question.

"Castiel has… Perhaps… Been using certain methods of consuming energy that he would not be able to gain otherwise." Balthazar's eyes flicked up and away from his sister's, looking up at the treetops and waiting for her to wrap her mind around what he'd said. He wasn't sure he wanted to see the look on her face when she did.

"Souls."

"Yahtzee."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Balthazar-" He twitched his eyes back in her direction, seeing Rachel fidget and move her hands in motions of clear, speechless agitation. "What- _Why?_" Balthazar rolled his eyes heavenwards.

"He's fighting _Raphael_, Rachel. When last I checked Cas was in a much lower weight-class." _That_ metaphor she seemed to get. "He's desperate."

"There must be other ways. You gave him the weapons!"

Balthazar held up his hands and said nothing. The weapons were powerful, but unfortunately many of them were like the Lot's Salt: Powerful enough to cause Raphael and his boys some serious trouble and hindrance, but not actually enough to kill him. The weapons bought time, precious time, and plenty of opportunity to gain the upper hand. If any of them had been outright powerful enough to destroy Raphael, they would have used them by now. Castiel's threat the night Balthazar had handed over the weapons had been mostly a bluff.

Rachel didn't know that. Castiel knew that because Balthazar had told him, and Balthazar knew because he had stolen the weapons and therefore had become intimately acquainted with each of them. At the end of the day, it was raw power that would be needed to kill Raphael, and souls were the only foreseeable way to accomplish that.

"This is a bad idea."

"I'm not exactly nuts about Cas gulping down a bucket-load of souls on the regular basis either, honey, but that's the way it has to be."

"Says _who?_"

"Says him!" Balthazar threw up his hands. "Look, Rachel, I'm not the one calling the shots here: It's all Cas. He's the one with the plans, not me. I gave up my schemes for his when I joined you lemmings on your jog towards the edge of the cliff!"

Rachel bit her tongue and contemplated that for a moment. Balthazar _had_ seemed a lot more… _Tame_ than he was prior to handing over the weapons. She didn't spend too much time with him- she was still more than a touch sore about him faking his death- but there had been a marked change in his behavior since he'd begun to openly cooperate with Castiel and their cause- Though it might not have been as apparent to someone who didn't spend as much time around Castiel as she.

So this was all Castiel's idea? Where had his sense gone?

Souls were dangerous. There was a reason they didn't use them, Castiel's symptoms being a classic example as to why. How many must he have been taking (Rachel sensed that Balthazar was being intentionally vague) to result in the kind of fatigue that would leave him nearly comatose?

The answer was immediate: Too many.

()()

She had left Castiel in her preferred heaven, and he was still there when she returned. He was leaning against the same tree she'd lain against as she'd supported him, and he was clearly awake. Dozing, a little out of it, but otherwise conscious.

Rachel had been told that when she was feeling any extreme mood- happiness, sadness, anger- it wasn't just apparent, it _radiated_ from her. That must have been true in this case as well, because Castiel went solemn when he sensed that she had arrived, and the look on his face was that of a child that had just been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, so to speak.

He didn't say a word when she stopped in front of him.

"Castiel." Those big, blue eyes his vessel sported were a little unnerving at times. Now they just looked sad. "You lied to me."

He bowed his head and didn't respond.

"Souls, Castiel?" Rachel heard the note of desperation that unintentionally leaked into her tone. "Do you have _any_ idea just how risky that is?"

"Rachel-"

"You should. You've been using them for, what, a year now? Over a year? Regularly, I would assume."

"I-"

"And don't try to tell me it's just one. Using one soul for power wouldn't drain you this way."

"I know." Castiel finally managed to break in when she paused briefly. "I know, Rachel. And I'm sorry." Rachel's fingers were clenched into fists at her sides.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She pressed, now more hurt than angry. "You don't trust me?"

"Of course I trust you." He responded automatically, now sounding just a touch defensive. "But I knew you would disagree. So I said nothing."

"You didn't think I would find out?"  
>"Of course I did. I was trying to think of a way to… Ease you onto the topic, but-"<p>

"But then you passed out after a failed attempt at flight." Castiel's eyes popped. Her voice had been saturated in sarcasm, and Rachel was much like him in the respect that sarcasm usually escaped her. And then his shoulders slumped in what she assumed was shame.

Castiel used to be so honest, and it seemed that that sense of truthfulness was still important to him. He'd defended his actions, but not as strongly as he could have, which indicated to Rachel that he was not happy with his behavior.

"I didn't know what else to do."

Prior to this, for the thousands upon thousands upon thousands of years of their existence, Castiel had never made her angry. Sad when he initially rebelled? Yes. Frightened when he struck out against Raphael? Of course. But anger was a foreign feeling to have towards him, and so Rachel found herself less than able to cling to it, however upset she was over this.

"You could have just _told me_." She sat down across from him. "If I don't know what's wrong with you, I can't help you. If I hadn't been there when you fell you could have been left there for hours. What if an enemy had come across you?" Castiel was nodding along with everything she said.

"I know."

"I know you _know_, Castiel, you're not a fool- My question is why you didn't _act_ based on what you knew."

Castiel's head dipped even further, and the shame only seemed to grow. He didn't look her in the eyes as he said "I'm afraid, Rachel, that in my time on earth I picked up some… Prideful tendencies."

"Such as?"

"Such as not wanting to admit when I need help."

Rachel's brow furrowed further. "That's illogical."

"That's humanity."

She couldn't argue with that. Rachel had been aware from the very beginning that Castiel's life amongst humans and as an almost-human angel had left a deep impression on his personality, good and bad alike. She didn't like it, of course she didn't, but she could understand as much that Castiel could not necessarily _help_ it.

Rachel took a deep breath, and then moved forward so that she was sitting next to him rather than facing him. "I'm your lieutenant. You chose me not just because I can fight and strategize, but because you trust me. Correct?"

"Yes."

"Then you need to come to me when you need help, Castiel." And, against her will, Rachel felt her face settle into a less than firm expression. "I _want_ you to come to me when you need help, Castiel. I'm your friend."

She wouldn't fully understand the depth of his guilt for another month.

But Castiel sighed. "What would I do without you?"

Rachel wasn't sure she ever wanted to know the answer to that question.

-End


End file.
